


Three Times Michael Westen Received Unconditional Love, and One Time He Gave It

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Love, Sacrifice, Slice of Life, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Michael Westen Received Unconditional Love, and One Time He Gave It

1: The lamp lay shattered at Michael’s feet, a sick feeling careening though his being as he realized what would happen to him now.

“Let me take it,” Nate said, grabbing the ball up from the shards of shattered glass.

“No…”

“I can take it,” he insisted, locking eyes on Michael’s half-green, half-faded shiner. “He’s hit you too much.”

Four seconds later Nate lay across their father’s lap, getting the walloping of his life, and Michael hung back, sympathy welling in his heart, digging bloody furrows into his own palms.

2: 

Sam had rushed them across the endless expense of the Nairobi dessert, his cammo top double-knotted into a tourniquet tied around Michael’s calf. The time passed in a tan blur, Michael’s eyes rolling about in his eyes as they dashed across the dirt. 

By the time they made it to the nearest convoy, they were dusty, sweat-crusted messes. Someone passed Sam a canteen and he he shook his head, pointing the lip toward Michael. “Drink up.”

“But…” Michael knew that they were four hours from the next outpost as the refreshing water slid down his throat. He knew Sam must have been dying for a drink.

But he didn’t protest as Michael drank his fill.

3:  
He didn’t know how someone so tiny could collect that many suitcases in such a short amount of time – especially because all of her possessions had been burned and smashed to smithereens a thousand times over. 

Yet Fiona sat on the doorstep of the, a pile of livery under her ass, wearing a nightingale-colored shift and a pair of six-inch Blahniks and staring at him with impertinence, as if she hadn’t marched out of his life hours earlier.

“You have a weird way of saying goodbye.”

“Did you think I’d leave you now?” she wondered, leaning forward, her gloved palms pressing against her upper thigh. “What’s the plan, Michael?”

“You do realize we have a multi-national corporation trying to kill all five of us,” he said.

That earned him a shake of the head and a gigantic smile.

His own arrived in response. He might have guessed she wouldn’t dessert him now.

“Be your own porter,” he said, parting wide the door.

“Of course,” she smirked, picking up a large bag and lugging it over the threshold. His cheek brushes her lips, her fingers tracing his forearm and sending the hairs erect along his forearm. 

“I missed you,” he told the empty air, when she’s carried the last bit inside, but he can only see her shoulders, straight and true, and the slow march of her legs toward the back of the room.

4: 

The baby’s mouth was a Lifesaver of outrage, vermilion against Fiona’s shoulder as she hoisted the child into his arm.

“She won’t stop for me,” Fiona grumbles, sizing him up. “You might have more of a knack than I.”

Michael’s features collapsed into a thoughtful mask, and he studied the baby the way he normally studied an atom bomb. His feet trod across the chill floorboards until she stopped wailing, and the sun came up.

His feet ached, his mind frizzled, and as he tried to blot the collar of his Armani dress shirt, he wondered how drool could possibly be orange-colored.

Glancing into the cradle, a sleepy, peaceful face smiled up at him. 

He decided immediately that it was worth the sacrifice.

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains characters from **Burn Notice**. The author has no legal claim upon these characters, and this fiction is a work of fannish tribute, from which no money was made.


End file.
